Obama Cancels Winter

11/5/2008, 9:33 am -- by | 2 Comments

–CHICAGO, Ill.

“Winter,” a cold and lonely season of death that has plagued America for over 230 years, was outlawed yesterday, in the first official act of president-elect Barack Obama’s reign.

“And to those who still doubt that we have the power to turn back the icy hand of Jack Frost, to free this nation from the shackles of snow and ice and all manner of winter weather, to frolic together on the beaches of Lake Michigan at 10 pm on a balmy Christmas Eve — I say to you: yes! We! Can!” Obama told a crowd in Chicago’s Grant Park, formerly a scenic Christmas landmark.

As a result, all over the nation today, Americans awoke to discover bright sunshine and unseasonably warm temperatures, enlivening what was once simply another Wednesday in early November. Even the fierce and wintry town of Detroit, Mich. was not immune to the order; surprisingly comfortable breezes there were credited for a nearly 400% increase in the overnight murder rate.

“I knew we could do this,” said Toni Rogers, a bikini-clad administrative assistant from Springfield, Massachusetts. “Nonstop summer is change I can believe in! Next step: finding a way to make rainbows without all that rain.”

“If anyone can do it, it’s Barack Obama.”

“Old Man Winter,” the anthropomorphized mascot of the season, has reportedly been sent to a secure facility in Guantanamo Bay, where he is being treated as an enemy combatant and hot-waterboarded.

Obama noted that the ban on winter would not apply in Alaska.

Our Endorsement

10/31/2008, 12:00 am -- by | 5 Comments

After an interminably long campaign season, the 2008 election is finally, blessedly, upon us. And as we vote, our nation faces immense challenges, from without and within: a gathering economic storm, two ongoing wars, and potential threats from Russia, China, and the Middle East. Our choice is not merely academic. We cannot afford a mistake. America must elect a leader with the experience to guide us safely through the next four years, the judgment to choose the best course through trouble, and the wisdom to make the difficult decisions.

Given the choices on the ballot, we have no trouble concluding: that leader is Senator John McCain.

Senator McCain has a long and storied record of serving this country with honor. He was shot down over Vietnam and tortured for over five years, enduring this suffering even after he was given the opportunity to be released before his fellow prisoners. He has been in the Senate for 22 years, where he is recognized by members of both parties as a pragmatic and independent leader, willing to hammer out a compromise when he believes it is in the best interest of the country, regardless of his party’s policies. He has long fought excessive spending and corruption in politics. His life tells a tale of accomplishments and action.

Contrast this record with his opponent’s. Senator Barack Obama has run an inspiring campaign that may well land him in the White House, but nothing in his history suggests that he is qualified for the job. From the Ivy League, he immediately entered the sleazy world of Chicago machine politics, where his ambition and gifts allowed him to quickly climb from local community organizer to U.S. Senator, with the help of several unseemly characters.

What has he done in that time? Precious little but run for higher office and vote “present” on controversial bills. What does he offer in support of his candidacy? Precious little but soaring rhetoric and vague promises of “hope” and “change” — welcome words in a time when so many believe the nation is on the wrong track, but ultimately, nothing more than hypnotic platitudes. He is simply a blank slate onto which his followers project their wildest political fantasies.

He has never — not once — taken a stance opposed to the wishes of his party.

He has never — not once — shown the courage to stand by an unpopular position.

On the issues, Sen. McCain outshines Sen. Obama, especially given the near-certainty of Democratic control in both the House and Senate. McCain’s tax plan focuses on relief for those who currently pay taxes; Obama would raise taxes on investors and confiscate money from some Americans to give to others. Obama has promised that one of his first actions in office would be to sign the Freedom of Choice Act, which purports to abolish all state restrictions on abortion. McCain is, and has always been, unapologetically pro-life. Obama’s responses to foreign crises, such as the Russian invasion of Georgia, have been unsurprisingly naive, while McCain speaks with the gravity of a man who has been deeply involved on the foreign stage for a generation.

While Obama has swayed with every gust of wind, McCain has been steadfast and right on Iraq and Afghanistan, promising that those countries will be secured and self-governing before we leave them. McCain would nominate Supreme Court judges who will free Congress and the states to make the law; Obama supports an unelected activist judiciary that would impose its policy preferences on the nation. McCain supports the continuation and expansion of free trade, which has been a tremendous boon to American industry. Obama would “renegotiate” the treaties, hamstringing our fragile economy even further.

John McCain is not a perfect man. He is anything but a perfect candidate. We disagree with him on several issues, and we need no help seeing his myriad flaws. But to choose a third-party candidate, as many have done, is no choice at all — not when the differences between the two major candidates are this stark, not when the stakes for our nation are so great. We have no time for foolish quibbles over irrelevant issues, the political equivalent of leaving a church over the color of the nursery carpet.

No, these are serious days for our nation and the world. We deserve, we need, more than a smooth-talking first-term senator who has never run anything larger than a law review office and a campaign. We deserve experienced leadership, a man who has been thoroughly tested and found worthy of the job and its tremendous responsibility. A man who respects the presidency, but does not lust for it.

Sen. Obama might inspire and uplift, but beneath the words, he is an unqualified man with one of the most extreme voting records in the Senate. Sen. McCain has a proven record of bipartisan accomplishment and consistent leadership.

One talks, and talks, and talks. The other has followed through.

Bweinh! proudly endorses Senator John S. McCain for President.

Best of Steve: The Unseemly Pride of Barack Obama

10/30/2008, 11:00 am -- by | 1 Comment

Originally published April 14, 2008.

The least attractive and most damaging characteristic President Bush has is his arrogance. So it’s a wonder to me that so many who have hated the results of his presidency have flocked to Barack Obama, who gives Bush’s Texas cockiness a hard-edged trebling.

This arrogance first became obvious when he became convinced — after a mere 27 months in the US Senate, which followed eight mostly unremarkable years in the Illinois state legislature — that his rhetorical skills and passion to “unify” somehow qualified him to bring his doctrinaire liberalism to the Oval Office. Since then, flashes of his pride and hubris have piled up, becoming more and more clear with every condescending explanation he gives of the latest “misinterpretation” of his words.

Now we find out he said, at a San Francisco fundraiser:

“You go into these small towns in Pennsylvania and, like a lot of small towns in the Midwest, the jobs have been gone now for 25 years and nothing’s replaced them. And they fell through the Clinton Administration, and the Bush Administration, and each successive administration has said that somehow these communities are gonna regenerate and they have not. And it’s not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren’t like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.”

Arrogant Barack here assumes that:

— A generation of small-town residents have remained helpless and unemployed because Presidents failed to put them to work.

— These residents dealt with this reality not by making the best of their situation, but by becoming bitter and frustrated.

— This bitter frustration explains their Neanderthal desire to cling to (among other things): gun rights, religion, racial prejudice, and hostility to free trade.

Now I could point out that Barack himself has exhibited anti-trade sentiment, while simultaneously assuring our allies that he doesn’t mean a word of it.

I could add that if any religion could be characterized as “bitter” or “frustrated,” it might be the religion of the guy who had his children baptized by a man who thundered that God should damn America, not bless it, who taught that the US government created HIV to kill black people. I might even mention that Barack’s close and continuing political association with that man, and many others like him, brings up legitimate charges that racism exists in Obama’s own heart.

But all that is just simple hypocrisy. We’ve come to expect it in our politicians.

What I want to point out instead is that this man really does believe those fainting, screaming crowds (“Yes, we can!”) prove his greatness. This man actually thinks that his election is the only event that can possibly save the union. This man truly expects that a president, as his wife has said, can and should “demand that [we] shed [our] cynicism,” “put down [our] divisions,” “come out of [our] isolation,” and “move out of [our] comfort zone.”

A man who would stand in front of some of his strongest supporters and unapologetically insult the core beliefs of the very people whose support he most desperately needs is a man who, deep down, believes that he is better than they are.

He is angry, he is radical, and he is almost impossibly arrogant. And the more he talks, the more we learn about the unreasonable fire that motivates the flowery rhetoric.

Best of Job — All Your Base…

10/28/2008, 10:00 am -- by | 3 Comments

Best of Job, originally published in February 2006.

I was reminded this morning of a prank I played in college. I was initially taught this genius by my brother Joel who would, of course, in his current pastoral capacity, deny it. But I had a giggle fit remembering it this morning, and now that the statute of limitations has passed, I will share it with you.

On one of the few occasions I was in the Houghton library, I noticed my arch-nemesis hanging out at a table with some of his henchmen, reading and carrying on. Armed with only a Russ Picardo, I felt the unholy, unhealthy urge to suddenly assert my dominance.

I made a beeline for the psychology section and searched for the most twisted title the shelves offered. I settled on “Homo-erotic Tendencies in Young Adults and Theories Toward Their Explanation” or something similarly-titled (ed.’s note: my search in the online catalog suggests it was “Homosexual behavior among males; a cross-cultural and cross species investigation”).

Perfect.

Rustler and I settled down at a table near the Pharisees and waited patiently. Finally my arch-nemesis and his minions went off to scope out the air-conditioned room upstairs for chicks to flirt with.

Quickly, and with Russ watching the stairs, I slipped the book into What’s-his-face’s bag, behind his binder and some looseleaf paper.

We moved over near the periodicals and waited. It was almost time for dinner. We would not have to wait long.

Here they came, laughing like drunken frat boys. Past the circulation desk. Towards the door. Through the scanners.

**BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Looks of honest incredulity, as they tested themselves individually, narrowing it down to the evil one — who opened his bag at the circulation desk.

“That is NOT mine!”

It was a good dinner.

Trust me.

Four Weeks (Part Nine)

10/24/2008, 4:00 pm -- by | 4 Comments

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

Most airports are on the outskirts of large cities, surrounded by squat tracts of industrial zoning, often abutting the discolored shores of the local lake or ocean. Flying into Ithaca was a revelation. Gliding down amid the undulating hills and rolling, cow-choked pastures, all I could see were forests and farmhouses, until suddenly, the trees opened up on a tiny stretch of asphalt: this traveler’s version of the Great Valley, with marginally fewer pterodactyls.

Tom’s car had died shortly before our trip began, and so he picked me up in mine, the ever-reliable Purpletrator. From the tiny airport, we went to his laboratory, where I donned a lab coat and posed for several pictures holding beakers, pouring liquids, and doing several other things I am manifestly unqualified for. He left me at his apartment, where I showered and laundered; once his neighbor cut off his wireless signal, I gladly succumbed to the call of the nap.

For there wouldn’t be much time to sleep. 25-cent wings were on the agenda, followed by Monday trivia at a downtown bar. When I was planning my flights, I chose Ithaca over Rochester solely for the chance to join Tom and his team. Although we fell oh-so-short of victory, my trip was not totally in vain — my evening in Ithaca led, in part, to the flowering of Tom’s nascent relationship with his triviamate. Had I not met her that night, chances are very good that I would not have given insistent pro-Lindsey advice a month down the road. The evening was also memorable for an odd phone call that found me wandering around the downtown Commons, holding my phone at arm’s length while a friend spent five solid minutes laughing at me.

It had turned to Tuesday when I drove up to Rochester, Tom asleep in the passenger seat. He then drove right back to Ithaca while I packed my suitcase to go back west — this time New Mexico, via Phoenix.

Will you mind if I don’t tell you about my week there?

Were I disciplined enough to have written all this in August, I would have recounted in detail the scenic drives, hidden lakes, pleasant dinners — even the herd of mighty elk that thundered across the mountain pass in front of us. But instead it is October: three months since that week with Chloe; six weeks since we broke up. What can I say about the trip now? I had a lovely time. She and her family are wonderful people.

As time passes, actions and feelings piling up in its wake, our memories change in a way we cannot control. The past is seen only through the lens of the inevitable present. A delightful Christmas morning is tinged with sorrow after a sudden death, the valleys of a roller-coaster year are forgotten under the ether of nostalgia. What actually happened is not as important as how it is remembered, because only the second can ever change. Only the second makes a difference now.

The happiest moments, the perfect times, the days and nights you are surest of your fate and future: the joy they bring, though great, is never eternal, or immutable. And so the challenge of life is to risk the pain, to accept our transience and uncertainty, yet still choose to live — and love — with the abandon of the One who not only laid down His life for His friends, but commanded us to do the same.

Meka Has Fallen!

10/23/2008, 12:00 pm -- by | 1 Comment

Meka has fallen. For those of you unfamiliar with Meka, she is the minor deity of considerable girth who reigns over the convenience store where I buy my coffee and newspaper everyday. She sits behind the counter, on a high throne that, to the uninitiated, appears to be a simple barstool. She rules the coffee maker and the racks of honey buns; she dispenses alcohol and tobacco products to the throngs of adoring devotees. All things considered, her reign has been a good one.

She arrived about a year ago, and her time has been marked by a magnanimous beneficence that had been greatly lacking in her predecessor. When I buy the USA Today and a cup of coffee each day, my total comes to 75 cents. If you know anything about the world of convenience stores, you know that the paper alone costs 75 cents. I’m not sure whether I get the coffee or the newspaper free, but I like the arrangement.

When Meka is not there, the owner charges me $1.25 for the same combo. On the rare day when they are both there, Meka charges me $1.50. I never flinch when this happens, not wanting to bring any ill fortune on her. Meka giveth and Meka taketh away. Blessed is Meka.

Her predecessor was known as the Elephant Woman, not because of her size, but because of her short, compact stature, and the general grayness that seemed to infuse her entire appearance. She reminded me of a character from Babar. Before her, there was a red-haired girl of gothic bent, whose name I don\’t recall, but who loved to talk about her pet squirrel Ralphie. At the time, oddly enough, we had a pet squirrel named Billy, and so there was common ground.

There was never a doubt about who was in charge during Meka’s reign. There is a license plate-sized placard behind the counter with the words “PERSON IN CHARGE,” and every day, “Meka” was written there in large red letters. And although I cannot prove it scientifically, things have been better under her rule. Slothman Cabdriver has not blocked my coffee access in months, his slow stirs costing me precious minutes so I pull into work at 8:02, not 7:59. I also have not been accosted by panhandlers lately. I like Meka.

All good things must come to an end, though. When I entered the store Monday morning, the sign loudly proclaimed: “PERSON IN CHARGE — Jesus, honey!”

So Meka was gone, but how could I be dismayed? I was shocked and elated; all I could do was ask the owner (to his utter confusion) if Jesus would still be selling beer and alcohol. I didn\’t mention the wine because I hate taking a nearly indefensible position in a debate.

To my great delight, Meka was back today, but the sign remained. She explained that she was tired of Jehovah\’s Witnesses coming into the store, “readin\’ they scriptures to folks and stuff,” so she made the change herself. Things can only get better now that Meka has yielded control of her small kingdom to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

“Crap” Reaches Christian Expletive Hall of Acceptance

10/22/2008, 10:30 am -- by | 4 Comments

–ATLANTA, Ga.

Angry and frustrated Christians can curse easier today as “crap,” long considered vulgar and sinful, was elected to the religion’s Expletive Hall of Acceptance.

“This is a big day for ‘crap’ and the Christians who can now feel free to use it to express even their most righteous anger,” said Rev. Jerry Johnson, expletive voter from the Southern Baptist Convention and longtime supporter of the punchy euphemism for defecation. “I for one look forward to hearing what the Bishop T.D. Jakes can do with this now-fully sanctified word.”

With the vote, “crap” joins “dang,” “heck,” “good grief,” and the still-controversial “gosh-darn” as first-ballot selections to the Hall. Not only does the decision pave the way for “crap” to be used with impunity in bulletin inserts, at church potlucks, and on the covers of countless shallow, doctrinally unsound books, but it also retroactively negates an estimated 350,000 threats of the use of soap in the mouths of impudent youngsters.

“The voters clearly realized that ‘crap’ is a true triple threat,” said George Ito, linguistics professor at Wheaton College. “The word combines the powerful release of a plosive consonant with the naughty tinge that comes from its mild vulgar meaning, and — most importantly to evangelicals — it has the benefit of not actually being, uh, the ‘s-word.’ You can’t get away with using that one unless you’re that darn Tony Campolo!”

“Golly, he’s a loose cannon,” Ito added.

The Hall was created in 1954 for two purposes: to recognize and honor those offensive words which had become so common that Christians gave up trying to avoid them, and to provide a convenient way to judge one another based on their words. “Before the Hall, it was anybody’s guess which words were okay; I didn’t know who should get a sneer and who should get a hug,” said Johnson’s wife, Mabel Lou. “The Hall just makes this judgment crap so damn convenient.”

“What? That one’s not okay yet? Oh dear me.”

“The difference between ‘shucks’ and ‘sucks’ may be just one letter, but it might just mean everything eternally,” added Rev. Jerry. “At least until next year, when we look at ‘sucks’ again. I think it’s got a pretty good shot actually.”

The Johnsons also noted that the vote on “crap” does not extend to the phrase “holy crap,” which is still “very, very wrong.”

In related news, “freaking” was denied acceptance yet again in this, its 20th and final year of eligibility.

Best of Job: My Worst Teacher

10/21/2008, 9:30 am -- by | No Comments

Originally published in May 2007.

Whether holding my hand over the fire pit of his analogies or examining broken twigs on the trail of his meandering reasons, never track his logic could I.

I always felt like I was a few days behind him, pressing through the dark forest of my instruction — trusting, hoping that his point lay just ahead, around the bend. I never enjoyed the chase, and there’s a thin line between being challenged and harassed. I came to a particular point in my trek when I determined that when a point is that well-hidden and obscure… when it requires that much angst to merely understand it… only a fool would spend his time rotting in the woods trying to catch it. The best in life is easily understood, and truth despises fog.

My worst teacher.

A man who bristled at the notion that you might think differently than him, he sent you his own copious notes before class and asked that you not take any others. They distracted him. If a question endeavored to stampede the discussion away from his notes, the energy he’d employ to corral us back into line was almost pornographic. Bullying, effacing and no-kid-gloves sophistry were never below him.

Sadly, these tactics were never below me either, and we butted heads to such a degree that he eventually asked me to drop the class. Success in his class was conformity to his thinking, a convincing imitation of it, or the old B-minus silence — none of which seemed a workable solution to me. My parents had taught me to speak my mind and to be aware and wary of socialist thinking. To him I was ruined.

While he had earned tenure, a doctorate in sociology, and ample respect from his colleagues, in turn he asked his students to simply piggyback on his experiences, judgment and morality. To just trust him. Our own conclusions were not encouraged, but headed-off.

But perhaps in being the worst teacher of my life, he is slowly morphing more readily into the best. He is the one who taught me that when it comes to faith, love and logic, I will only embrace them when I am tracking the truth — not, alone, someone else’s version of it.

Four Weeks (Part Eight)

10/17/2008, 4:00 pm -- by | 1 Comment

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

To me, California has always existed in a sort of hazy myth. Crowded, temperate, and seismic; home of heroic, half-remembered President Reagan; it was as far removed from my marooned and icy New York youth as ancient Ur.

As a boy, I spent hours planning cross-country road trips, following the example of my father, who crossed the continent at 18 and has the unpaid San Francisco parking ticket to prove it (although, he quickly reminds me, it wasn’t his car). Not many years later, the state was home to my first requited crush, a kind girl from Napa who, it turned out, was by far my wiser. And after my college graduation, my first plane ride was there, courtesy of my grandmother, who gave me a week out West with several close friends, where we climbed Tahquitz and strung up Chinese lanterns in preparation for a wedding.

Seven years later, those not-so-newlyweds had three children, and visiting their home would not only allow me to see them all and return to the California of lore, but also to meet the only Bweinh!tributor I did not yet personally know — the delightfully rational Kaitlin. All told, easily sufficient motivation to weather a return itinerary that would wing me from LA to New York to Phoenix in just under 36 hours.

Have you ever returned to a place you loved, only to find that the utopian glow of nostalgia had made it only a modest imitation of the splendor you remembered?

Me too. But this wasn’t like that at all.

No, instead, returning was all the more wonderful. I had the autonomy to do whatever I liked (including a few trips to a sturdy swing set, as well as buying and devouring a surprisingly readable translation of Don Quixote) and repeated opportunities to help my hosts, which I particularly welcomed, since my entire July had begun to feel like one unending impingement on the kindness of others. I even had the good fortune to witness a late-night thunderstorm, rumbling down from the mountains in a pyrotechnic volley.

As always, the people were the highlight, full of grace and good humor whether we were slinging trash bags into the dump or playing games around a kitchen table. I have never yet regretted a day spent with a Tate (that winter evening we slept on the floor of the unheated lakehouse is another story), Lisa and I defied predictions of a heated melee, and Kaitlin proved even more engaging than her well-crafted (if sadly rare, on these pages) prose. Watching the four sisters interact was eerily like being with my three brothers, with only slightly more talk about fashion.

Before I flew out Sunday evening, the Tates took me to Sarah’s childhood home, where her mother treated us to a delicious dinner, then watched the kids while we headed to the beach. We walked the Santa Monica Pier, past the carousels to the very end, where the brisk sea breeze whistled through the lines of the men and boys fishing for halibut off the side.

And as the sun set into the endless blue Pacific, I ran through the sand and leapt into the crashing surf, plunging beneath the warm ocean, no longer just a legend. A few hours later, as I climbed aboard the plane back to my homeland, I could feel in my brow, taste on my lips, the salty dross the sea had left behind.

I taste it still. I will feel it again.

Behind the Scenes

10/16/2008, 10:00 am -- by | 2 Comments

–ITHACA, N.Y.

It\’s the kind of thing that drives a coach crazy; the sort that has him sitting at a bar drinking free Salvation Army Cokes, reminiscing about what might have been. Last year, Bweinh! had a strong season, nearly winning several major awards — and then, during the offseason, busted the salary cap by re-signing several free agents, among them Tom.

“We originally signed Tom out of college; his numbers in the combine were incredible, off the charts really,” said Steve, coach, general manager, and owner of the fledgling website. “He had a great rookie year and signed at the league minimum, but we knew arbitration would nail us, so we signed him to a big contract over the offseason.”

Tom had a strong training camp and started the season with a bang — but then he was injured in a freak accident. Said Steve: “He did some great clashes for us last season, and we were going to move him to left guard, taking over some of the more liberal clash positions from MCB — but then he wrote that little blurb for the new ‘bwog’ feature . . . and the rest was history.”

The blurb, of course, was the subtle, yet uproariously humorous PT Cruiser quote, by far one of the funniest items in the two-week period. But disaster struck when Tom dislocated the tip of his index finger polishing the sentence; a relief writer was called in to finish the last few letters. The next day, he was flown to Sloan-Kettering to be examined by nationally renowned finger experts, and the news wasn\’t good.

“There was more trauma than anyone realized at the time, actually some damage to the nail, causing it to discolor as it has grown out,” Steve noted. “Not only that, but it was extremely painful, which was, uh, the real problem.”

By “the real problem,” of course he means the rumor that in treating his injury, Tom has become addicted to the painkiller Advil, complicating his return to the site. When reached for comment, Tom spoke of needing to “return to the lab,” refusing to answer any questions about ibuprofen dependency.

They say it’s lonely at the top, and no one knows that better than the coach: juggling lines, redrawing plays on the fly, and wondering who will next land on injured reserve. Next week, we’ll look at center MCB — who recently changed his name to MB, but has yet to get league permission to wear it on his jersey. Last year he got off to a quick start, but his offseason marriage has forced him to be placed on the “physically unable to perform” list.

Bweinh! Goes to the Movies — Religulous

10/10/2008, 1:42 am -- by | 2 Comments

I’m going to make a documentary. I’ll line up a friend with a camera to follow me around; maybe a boom mike too, for effect. I’ll get people to sit down and have a conversation with me, just two folks trying to understand each other — only once I edit the footage, I’ll make them look as stupid as I can: cutting them off before they finish, cutting in some vacant stares, maybe throwing in a nasty caption or two. And if I can’t think of the perfect smarmy comeback immediately, that’s okay! It’ll come to me in the editing room, and I’ll splice it right in!

I think I’ll call my film “Maheronic.” Too derivative? Well, why don’t you sit down and tell me why you think so? Don’t forget to look directly into the camera — no, not the one I set up on the floor behind you so you look like a naughty student in the principal’s office. Look at the other camera, the one behind me with the zoom set on “Nose Hair.” Don’t worry, I’ve been taping you while you were confused. And yes, if I really hate you, I’ll use that part too. Don’t pick your nose!

How will I start? Oh, by giving away the ending — namely, that I think Bill Maher is an insufferable, swaggering dunce. But then I’ll quickly explain that I’m making this movie to explore whether I’m right, which I am, because no rational human being could possibly disagree with me. Then I’ll move on to anecdotes from my past that no one cares about. Would you like to meet my mother? She’s feisty!

But enough about me (only for a few minutes) — what I need now are opponents to misrepresent. I’ll open with those my audience respects the least: my hero Maher went with truckers, so maybe I should pick actors. At least truckers can drive a stick shift. I’ll confuse them by mixing what they actually believe with my odd hallucinations about what they believe, then demanding they defend the whole mixture. “So you really think Bill Maher is a comedian, and an actor, and the capital of Peru?? Can you seriously believe that? Are you totally stupid or just completely wrong?”

After they stammer through, I’ll switch gears (trucker lingo, sorry) to the other extreme. This requires a new strategy — like Maher with Dr. Francis Collins, I’ll let experts talk, but then cut them off, editing their words so they either agree with me or agree to nonsense. There’s no middle ground, and if they talk longer than three seconds at a time, I’m screwing up! Documentaries are no place for complete thoughts! And sometimes, when I need to, I’ll just straight-up lie: blatantly false captions, unsupportable assertions, added sound effects, it’s all good!

Who’s gonna know? My opponents are simpering idiots, remember?

My superiority assured, I’ll tell my new “friends” all about how great I am. Loathing Bill Maher is a luxury, you see: I’d like him too if I was from Hollywood, which is like prison, just with different implants. Out in the real world, I don’t need to rely on a crutch. Besides, did you know a lot of really bad people like Maher? It’s true. Fred Phelps likes him; they were even in a movie together, called Religulous! Who hangs out with a guy like that?? Someone with a neurological disorder! I’ll even find a scientist to say those words, to make it seem like he agrees with me!

I’ll bang these gongs for a bit, with the occasional detour into the odder iterations of Maher fanhood (that valentine of a Wikipedia page doesn’t update itself), until — in the ultimate triumph of hyperbolic reductionism — I tie all my opponents together in one unhinged, foaming rant of conclusion. This is where the medium of film comes in really handy. Just think: a shot of Bill Maher, a shot of Osama bin Laden, the one, the other, back and forth, back and forth! The sound of his voice over visions of exploding bombs and the corpses of innocent kittens! His head on the body of every member of the Village People! He! Is! Evil!

But if you dare disagree with me? You’re an enabler. A “mafia wife.” You’re guilty of all of the crimes of all of the people who ever lived and agreed with you about anything ever, in all of recorded history. Even if you only like him a little, you need to know: that solace and comfort comes at a terrible price.

Grow up — by which I mean pledge allegiance to my rigid, stilted worldview — or die.

Fade to black.

That’s how I’ll make my propaganda film.

I give Religulous no letters on our scale.

One More Song

10/9/2008, 9:30 am -- by | No Comments

I\’ve had a song stuck in my head for a long time now. It\’s an old song — I don\’t know how old, maybe 4,000 years or so. It\’s from the Bible, Psalm 137, and it was written by a Jew carried away captive by Nebuchadnezzar, king of Babylon. I’ve never heard the tune and I don\’t even know all the words, but every time I read the Psalms, it catches me again, like a burning bush, an enigma I cannot turn away from.

It’s about a musician among the captives who sat down by the river and wept when he reached Babylon. The Babylonian soldiers taunted him, asking for a song about his homeland Zion, but he flung his harp into a willow tree along the bank of the river and refused to sing. All he could think about was his devastated life and revenge toward the ones who had hurt him. He was in no mood to sing.

But somehow, with it all so fresh in his mind, he managed to write one more song.

In that song, he simply poured out his anguish and anger, with one bright spot: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget its skill! If I do not remember you, let my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth ”” if I do not exalt Jerusalem above my chief joy.” In the midst of his anger and bitterness, his complete brokenness, he reaffirmed his destiny. His purpose — his whole reason to exist — was bound up in Jerusalem, and he could never forget that.

I read that in 1948, when Israel won its independence, Jewish refugees streamed into the new nation by the thousands, fleeing the horrors of the Holocaust and the persecution that had followed them throughout Europe. They came by train, by boat, by plane; when they arrived at the coast, they took whatever transport they could find to get to Jerusalem. One convoy of rusty trucks rolled into Jerusalem with that verse on the front bumper of the lead vehicle: “If I forget you, O Jerusalem…” If that man’s words, written some 4,000 years before, could still inspire the hopeless in those times, it’s no wonder that they can still reach me on this dark, rainy Alabama day in early October, 2008.

How can we read that psalm and fail to understand that what we do matters? Every time we pick up a pen to write, or post to a blog or a journal, or pick up a guitar to play and sing, we must surely know that whatever we do for God’s kingdom is eternal! Even if all you can do is recount the grief of your last setback, and affirm that nothing will keep you from God\’s plan for your life — do it! Whatever it is that you do in the Kingdom, it matters for eternity.

Pick up your pen; write another post. Pick up your guitar. Sing one more song.

Bweinh! Goes to the Movies — An American Carol

10/6/2008, 11:30 pm -- by | No Comments

Low expectations get an undeserved rap. Think of how helpful they are! They help us endure torturous high school musicals, they operate as a bulwark against corrosive despair in the workplace, and they singlehandedly keep nearly 3,000 Arby’s restaurants all across the United States in business.

I brought my own well-worn set of low expectations last weekend when I went to see David Zucker’s answer to the Hollywood left: An American Carol. In my mental budget, I had already allocated my $9 ticket as a “political contribution,” rather than “entertainment.” I don’t particularly like going to the movie theater: movies are expensive, and if I wait a few months, I get to watch them for what feels like free when Netflix mails them to my apartment. But for the first time since The Passion of the Christ, I wanted to buy a movie ticket to make a monetary statement.

The nagging problem was that I knew what kind of movie it was likely to be. Zucker, acclaimed director of Airplane! and The Naked Gun, reviled director of BASEketball and Scary Movie 4, is not known for subtlety. I’ve enjoyed the over-the-top political ads he’s produced since 9/11 made him a conservative, but like everything else these days, they’re designed to entertain people who already agree. No liberal watches a commercial that shows Madeline Albright painting a terrorist cave and comes away thinking, “You know, maybe I was wrong about Iraq — and I’m suddenly queasy about embryonic stem cell research too.”

And as much as I hate to be proven right, that was the biggest problem with this film. Much of the first hour made it impossible for anyone but rock-ribbed Republicans to take anything of value from it — and at times its tactics turned me off too. Just so you know, I strongly agree with the film’s main premise. Evil men exist, they are committed to killing us, and we must learn the lessons of history and show the fortitude needed to stop them from doing so. Hear, hear.

But I’m not comfortable with a running gag where all Muslims are named “Mohammed Hussein.” I don’t want to see an “alternate history” where a pacifist Lincoln caused Gary Coleman to be born into slavery. I’m not a big fan of the ACLU, but I also have no interest in firing shotguns at its members. These and other edgy gags simply weren’t as funny as they needed to be to overcome their bad taste, and an audience ready to roar in subversive laughter was left squirming in its seats instead — and worse, wondering about the guy in the back who found all the racial humor way too funny.

There were some amusing moments and some deep moments — on the whole, I’m glad I went. But Zucker’s overbearing attempts at satire only ensured that its targets could safely ignore and marginalize the film as just another right-wing hit piece. I can only hope my $9 donation was enough to earn us another shot. Maybe, for once, I can leave pleasantly surprised.

I give this film a “Bwe” out of “Bweinh!” (3 out of 7).

Playing Chicken with God

10/5/2008, 8:30 pm -- by | No Comments

I don\’t know how if this is true today, but when I was younger, we played “chicken” a lot. Two people would hurtle toward each other on bikes (or cars) to see who would swerve at the last second to avoid the crash. I played the bike version — and another type, where two of us pushed our forearms together and dropped a lit cigarette between them, to see who pulled away first.

I\’m 47 now, and when I play chicken these days, I play with God. I never start the game; He does. And to be honest with you, I hate to play — it’s nerve-wracking.

It always starts the same way. I have bills due, and I am either owed a commission or I have a large sale that I can close. But then the deal or the check, whatever it is I need, gets hung up somehow, but I find I can still do something shady to get my money. Maybe it’s telling a white lie, maybe it’s fudging — or forging — some paperwork. Either way I get the money now instead of next week.

No one gets hurt; I get my money; I lose my soul.

I\’d like to say I’ve never given in to the temptation, but at times I have. A few years ago, God started to deal with me about it when a young girl confronted me about some paperwork that had to be undone because I had lied. I was horrified, I apologized, and I repented. She was a backslidden Christian who eventually came back to the Lord and even credited the way I handled the situation for helping to turn her around. Yeah, what a great guy I am.

We’re playing chicken again this week, God and me. My boss offered to give me a commission check today if I would agree that he should forge a document we could correct on Monday. Seeing the consternation on my face, he said, “We could do it another way if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

I said, “No. I\’m not comfortable with any of this. I don\’t want anything to do with any of it,” and walked away.

So come on, God, do your best! You could have provided this on time, but instead You chose to get in your car and head right toward me, to see if I’ll swerve off the road into sin. I\’ve been here before, though, and like David said: “Let me fall into the hands of the LORD, for his mercy is very great; but do not let me fall into the hands of men.” I\’ll take my chances in a head-on crash with God, rather than swerving off the path of righteousness.

P.S. — My boss just came in and told me he had decided to wait and do things right on Monday.

P.P.S. — He called me in and paid me anyway. I win again! Praise God!

Four Weeks (Part Seven)

10/2/2008, 7:00 pm -- by | 4 Comments

Read the series in parts: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

A pleasant woman from American Airlines stopped me as I handed her my boarding pass. “You won’t be very comfortable in this seat. Are you okay with moving to an exit row?” You bet I was, all six and a half feet of me! A sign of smooth travel ahead, I hoped, and I enjoyed the extra legroom all the way to Dallas, where I landed to a voicemail from Josh Tate — who told me he and his family had just left the house, and might be a little late picking me up.

But I wasn’t supposed to land for another six hours.

I called back and got his wife, who couldn’t stop laughing once we figured out that they had read the time of my East Coast departure as the time of my West Coast arrival. They would simply make a day of it in Palm Springs; it was a welcome opportunity to come down the mountain and enjoy civilization.

While they waited in the desert heat, I took off from Dallas strapped into a over-the-wing window seat, behind a fully reclined snorer, beside two of the sort of teenage girls who buy three glossy fashion magazines, then find something to loudly discuss on every perfume-scented page. It felt right somehow when the plane started shaking. I was probably shaking too.

Turned out some of those important flying-type parts weren’t working quite the way they should, so almost two hours into the flight, the pilot announced that although he could still fly the plane just fine for the time being, it might be best for everyone if we landed early, you know, while we still had the choice. But not in Palm Springs (we were almost halfway there), and not in Albuquerque (just a slight diversion north). Back in Dallas. Meanwhile, the girl next to me took out a preschool “Fun Book” and a Ziploc bag full of crayons, and proceeded to meticulously color a smiling fish. I began to seriously wonder if I was still asleep on the subway.

We waited for the plane to be “repaired,” but when I heard the gate agent give out the toll-free reservation change number, I dialed immediately. A wise move, as I beat the loudspeaker announcement by enough time to get my choice of California flights — none of which, I quickly learned, were headed to Palm Springs. LAX it was, ultimately making the Tates’ journey both ill-timed and unnecessary.

My lucky luggage, on the other hand, was already on its way to Palm Springs; no one was certain, but chances were good that it managed to sneak aboard a flight with no empty seats, but plenty of room in the cargo hold. I asked around, but I did not have the same option.

I was nearly picked up in Los Angeles by Lisa and the Barrs, who were in the neighborhood, but lacked a sixth seatbelt. It was probably for the best — my skill at meeting people is hard to understate, even on days when my plane doesn’t almost crash. And so instead I met the longsuffering Josh at the airport and dined with him at In-N-Out; after a 2-hour drive to collect my wayward luggage (temperature: 99) and a 1-hour drive back up the mountain (temperature: 72), the day was finally, mercifully, done.

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